Stricken
by Scribe Figaro
Summary: A single blow fells Sango and reveals to Miroku a nightmare to which the Kazaana cannot compare.
1. Fall

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STRICKEN 

by Scribe Figaro __

"I know these voices must be my soul.   
I've had enough, I've had enough   
Of being alone   
But I've got no place to go."   
- Dave Matthews Band, "Rhyme and Reason"

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Chapter One: Fall

**I.**

__

She's left again . . . 

Having thought about the issue for a long time, Miroku had at this evening come to a conclusion about Sango. 

She really, really annoyed him. 

She probably didn't intend it. And surely, he bothered her in far more invasive ways - the repeated slaps he received from her made that quite clear. But her tendency to awake late at night and leave the group so often grated on his nerves, because every time she stirred he could not help but hear her, and every time she wandered off alone he could not help but watch her step lightly and quietly through the forest in which they stayed, and every time he watched her he knew sleep was lost to him that evening. 

She was no woman of weak will - the repeated slaps he received made that clear, as well - but there was something in Miroku's nature that made him want to protect her, even though all reason indicated she neither wanted nor needed his protection. She was strong, she was fierce, and she showed no mercy to those that hurt her or her friends. 

But at the same time, she was not experienced to the ways of the world. She had not gone far from her own village until he, Kagome, Shippou, and Inuyasha arrived. Her tribe of taiji-ya always did their work in teams, so she had not fought alone for many years as he or Inuyasha did. Without experience, it was unlikely she or anyone else would know how vulnerable one person traveling alone can be in these endless forests. She could not know the sort of desperate men that lurked in these lands, nor the lengths they would go to for a prize so unique as Sango. There were, after all, worse things than youkai. 

Miroku did not want her to learn this firsthand. 

True, he felt similarly for all women he came across. It was one of the few good lessons he took from his upbringing, the idea of protecting women. Perhaps his father ingrained such a rule in his mind because of his mother. 

Regardless, Miroku knew that he posed little help in any dangerous situation Sango may find herself in. __

Perhaps it is I who wants to be protected by her. 

He smiled at the thought, partly at the irony, partly because it may have been true. How many times had he been alone, trapped, under the spell of some youkai, and saved at the last minute by Sango? How many times had she rushed into a deadly situation without regard to her own life, simply because she knew he was in danger? 

He played off such situations, usually, but only because the truth was oftentimes too chilling to imagine. To know he had been careless, or outwitted entirely, and to imagine never knowing the stunning taiji-ya would be the same as being killed many times over! 

He wasn't slack in assisting her, either. He had taken his share of wounds intended for her, and he would gladly take many more. Sango had been hurt so many times since she came across Miroku and their group, and the pain of being wounded, to Miroku, failed to compare to the pain of seeing Sango struck down and bloody yet again. 

It didn't matter who was helping whom; none could possibly deny that they fought well together. Miroku had battled so many youkai alone that it was hard to believe anyone could adapt to his style and complement his weaknesses, but Sango did so with practiced ease. Clearly, her years fighting alongside the strongest taiji-ya in her village gave her the training necessary to do so, but Miroku had the indication her particular style and grace was all her own. 

Though she probably did not realize it, she strengthened him in ways he would not have believed. The simple sensation of her battle aura quickened his heart and sharpened his senses like nothing else could. Her mere presence made him well at ease, collected, and prepared for anything that would come their way. He wondered if she felt the same way about him. 

The fact that Kagome and Inuyasha shared the same type of relationship did not pass by Miroku's understanding, and the idea that this indicated a possible romantic relationship between him and Sango was not easily dismissed, given that such thoughts led to his most unusual and favorite fantasies. So many daydreams with women began and ended with sleeping with them - much like his rare but memorable real-life experiences. But what woman, besides Sango, did he fancy as his wife, as mother of his children? 

None, of course. And even though he did not feel about ready to give up his womanizing ways - he was still young, thank Kami-sama - he knew when Naraku was defeated and their respective curses vanquished, she would have no reason to stay with them anymore. Miroku knew at that time he would gladly give up the thrill and excitement of chasing other women to stay with her. 

Ah, he would miss the tea-house girls and the sake, but he could still live without them. But life without Sango . . . how could any man bear it? 

Thinking further, Miroku realized that this was the only reason he followed her. Not to rescue her. Not to protect her. Only to watch her as she sat and thought her sad thoughts. To approach her, interrupt her tears before they could come, and give her whatever reassurances he could come up with. Or, failing that, to grab her ass and make her angry enough to forget her troubles for a little while. Which wasn't to say such a thing was an entirely selfless act. 

Miroku was certain his curse, the Kazaana, would fulfill its purpose within a few years. His time in this world was so much more precious because of it. It was the reason he so often reached out for simple or carnal pleasures in his wilder days, the days that more or less ended when he first came across Inuyasha, Kagome, and Shippou. Now, with his life so much shorter due to repeated damage and strain to his Kazaana, he felt the need to take advantage of the pleasures of life with increased vigor. 

Could he help it, then, if the only pleasures he sought were to be beside Sango, to talk to her, to tease her, and to touch her, just to make sure she was real? 

Miroku suddenly stopped short, eyes wide, mouth agape. He felt Sango's battle aura, jarring him like smelling salts. His hand became white-knuckle tight on his shakujou, and within an instant he could sense direction, hear the muffled sounds of battle, and began to run. 

**II.**

He ran swiftly, silently, and within moments he could hear the laughter of men, the clang of steel on steel. 

He burst through a copse of trees, finding himself overlooking a ravine. He took in the scattering of bodies before him – gruesome-looking creatures that could possibly have been boar-youkai, all wearing dirty clothes and pierced armor. Rusted swords lay near them. 

Several were quite alive, he saw, as he leapt from the bank. He drove his shakujou through one upon landing. 

"Houshi-sama!" Sango shouted. She seemed to be doing well, though she was wielding a heavy, long katana that was clearly stolen from one of her fallen enemies. 

He threw his shakujou at her, which she caught in midair. The weapon, imbued with his houriki, nearly unbreakable, and far better-balanced than the war-weapon she held, would serve her much better. 

"Arigatou!" she called, dropping the heavy sword and dispatching another creature with the decorated edge of Miroku's staff. 

Miroku nodded, and quickly dodged an arrow from the opposite bank. He took a survey of his enemies. Three swordsmen, all surrounding Sango at the moment. One archer. Two youkai with halberds. At least a dozen of their companions scattered the ground. Miroku found himself wondering if his intervention was necessary, or even helpful. __

Perhaps this is her idea of a date. 

It was then he tripped and fell over the youkai-corpse behind him. __

Damn. 

O-fuda took care of two of them as he fell, but one youkai remained, and he raised a halberd above him, intending to cleave him in half. The creature's porcine nose, decorated with a brass ring through the nostrils, sprayed mucous as it smiled, revealing two-inch tusks that dripped saliva and let forth a sort of victory grunt. 

Before he could react, Sango was standing above him, holding his staff above her head to block both of them from the blow. The halberd made contact a few inches below its blade. The wood splintered and broke, sending the heavy metal head flying. 

The broken edge continued to travel downward, striking Sango on the forehead, just above her left eye, with a gut-wrenching crunch. 

**III.**

She didn't even flinch, and spun the shakujou forward, decapitating the last youkai. Blood sprayed, its grubby claws waved, and the body fell backward. 

She stepped aside, allowing Miroku to get to his feet. She put a hand to her head and grimaced. 

"Sango? Are you all right?" 

"I'll be fine," she said. "It's just a bad bruise." 

"Let me see." 

She hesitated for a moment, but his concerned expression calmed her. He leaned forward, gingerly pushing aside her bangs. A bruise already began to flower, the blue-black swelling flesh cut in two with a deep gash. 

"I don't want to take a chance with a wound like that," he said. "Get on my back; I'll carry you to Kaede-sama's home." 

She grinned wryly, as she did when she figured out his more perverted plans. "It's not that easy, Houshi-sama." She handed him his shakujou. "You can walk with me, if you choose, but I'm not about to let you get your hands on me." 

They didn't get far. Miroku counted about twenty steps before she stumbled and fell. 

He didn't catch her in time, but she got up quickly. She stood on wobbly legs, and Miroku gripped her arms to steady her. 

"Would you let me carry you now?" 

"Ssshkebe," she slurred. Drool trickled from a corner of her mouth. Her eyes did not focus on him. 

Muttering a quick prayer, he picked her up and threw her over one shoulder. She mumbled protest, but he paid no heed. 

He ran. Branches whipped across his face, drawing red lines across his cheeks, but he felt nothing but the waning breath and heartbeat of the woman against his back. 

He felt her gag, suck in gulps of air, and heave. He stopped, getting a firm grip on her obi and pulling her to a standing position before him. One arm was firmly around her waist and the other crossed her chest, his hand at her shoulder. He felt her tense, her hands reached to the arm across her chest, holding tightly. 

She vomited, staining her kimono. Her fingernails drove into his forearm. 

"It's alright, Sango. Just let it out." She let go of his arm, and he wiped her chin with the edge of his wide sleeve. "Better now?" 

She nodded, almost imperceptibly. He picked her up again, this time holding her in front of him, one arm supporting her back and the other beneath her knees. She seemed to slip in and out of consciousness now. 

"Eyes open, Sango!" 

He gritted his teeth. He jostled her as he walked, but it was no use. She was limp in his arms now, one arm waving before him, the other clutching at the collar of his robe. The reek of sick on her clothes was joined with a different, acrid smell. Miroku thought he might cry. __

This is bad. This is very, very bad. 

This was how things ended, wasn't it? She fought against countless youkai, fought with skill and grace and cunning, suffered the manipulations of Naraku, saw the loss of her village and her family, saw the kidnapping and continued torture and enslavement of her brother, and rose above it, all of it. She was the first of them to battle Naraku, battled him alone, without fear or hesitation. Her character was forged of the finest steel, her honor of the whitest cloth, her heart wider than all the sea, and her beauty more prolific than the bejeweled night sky. She was all of this, and yet she would fall, here, because Miroku had tried to help her in battle, had given her a weapon she was unfamiliar with, and had distracted her. __

No, damn it! It isn't supposed to be this way. I was supposed to die for her! Me! My life is short, my curse comes ever closer to consuming me. My only options are to slay Naraku or to circumvent his curse by sacrificing my life. Why didn't she see that? 

Miroku winced as his side began to ache, but he continued on. 

He had to bring her to safety. He could not fail her. 

**Author's Note:** I decided, mired in "If You Need Her," that I would not post another incomplete fanfic. This one is pretty much ready to go; I plan to post the remaining three chapters within a week of each other. 


	2. Care

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STRICKEN 

by Scribe Figaro 

**Chapter Two: Care**

**IV.**

"Kagome-sama!" 

The young girl jolted when she heard her name called. She recognized Miroku-sama's voice, but he sounded – well, angry. Or desperate. She couldn't tell, but she ran to the door of Kaede-baachan's hut and poked her head out. 

Miroku-sama was carrying Sango-chan. Just a look at her was almost enough to make Kagome cry. She looked to have a very bad head wound, and she must have gotten sick somewhere. Both her sandals were gone. Miroku looked exhausted, as if he'd been carrying her for a long time. 

"Bring her inside!" she cried, running to her backpack to get out her medical supplies. 

He was right behind her, laying Sango carefully on a futon as she began to pick out bandages and medicines from her first aid kit. 

"She was hit hard in the head," Miroku said. "She's been in and out for a few minutes now. She might be in a coma. Kagome-sama, you can cure that, right?" 

Kagome was already taking a look at her injuries. Quickly, she ran her hands up and down Sango's body to check for broken bones, bleeding, or any other less-than-obvious injury. It seemed she had a few cuts, but it was the welt on her forehead that frightened her. If it was a skull fracture – well, that was something that needed CT scans, or neurosurgery. In a hospital at home, maybe a doctor could do something. But here, she had no tools or skills to help with such dire injury. 

She bit her lip. "Iie . . . there's nothing to do but wait." 

Miroku looked incredulous. "In your time, they have no medicines for this sort of injury?" 

"They. . . they have doctors, special doctors, that can help you when you hurt your head. But there's no way to get her to one of those people, and there are no medicines I could bring her that would help." 

"Then bring her to the bone-eater's well. Bring Sango to your great doctors." 

"Miroku-sama, you know that it doesn't work that way. Only Inuyasha and I can use the well." 

His right hand grasped Kagome's collar, pulling her face to his. His eyes flashed a desperation that could not be far from madness. "Then try, goddamn you." 

Kagome leaned back, stunned. 

Miroku caught himself, and quick as a flash his countenance returned to his normal, detached self. "I'm sorry," he said. "I should go outside so that you can change Sango-sama's clothes. Do you have a clean kimono for her?" 

"I'm not sure," she muttered. She seemed in shock still, but determined to take care of her friend. She turned away from Sango, going toward the corner of the hut for some supplies. She poured a bucket of water into a basin beside the fire to warm it, then began to search for some clean rags and blankets. 

When she turned around, Miroku was wearing only his inner kimono. His black robe and purple kesa were neatly folded beside the sleeping Sango. 

"Give her these. They're old, but they're warm." 

Kagome nodded wordlessly, her eyes wavering with tears that did not fall until after Miroku had crossed the threshold and gone out of view. 

**V.**

Miroku was regretful about scaring Kagome as he did, but there was really no other way. He shook his head as he approached the well. 

"Resorting to your old tricks again, Miroku," he muttered to himself. 

He leaned over the edge of the well as he produced a small bottle of Shikon shards from his pocket, surreptitiously stolen from around Kagome's neck. 

"Well, here goes nothing." 

The bottle clenched in one fist, he leapt over the edge and fell. 

There was no flash, no time-stream, nothing that sounded remotely like how Inuyasha and Kagome had described. 

Miroku, kneeling at the bottom of the well, his knees and ankles already aching, pounded at the dirt before him until his knuckles began to bleed, cursing the well, cursing Kagome, and cursing all the false hopes she brought to his world. 

**VI.**

"Miroku-sama." 

The houshi ceased his low chanting as the young miko's voice gently roused him from his meditation. Sango's hand, soft and unresponsive, remained held between his own. 

He turned to the young girl, who held the bucket of river-water in both hands, a towel over one shoulder. 

He had fed Sango the thin rice-paste several hours ago, the small and tasteless dinner that he fed to her each night. He had drawn the sleeping girl into his lap, dipped his fingers in the offensively childish meal, pressed them to her lips, past her lips, let the half-bite dissolve on her tongue, and done so again and again. Feeding her enough food to keep her well and alive took nearly an hour. The medicines he ground into them – strong ginger, bitter roots, the very best Chinese medicines he could find – made his fingers numb. He did not believe Kagome would allow him to feed her mouth-to-mouth, and because of this, her kimono was often soaked even though he brought the bowl of tea so carefully to her mouth and poured it down her throat so slowly and so very patiently. This was acceptable, though, because the tea was warm and soothing, and even pouring it on her chest would have a good effect. 

After the tea, he would lie her down again, bring the blankets to her neck, place her hand between his, and chant the Chinese pleas for good health and good digestion. 

Hours later, just before sunset, he would leave so that Kagome could bathe the taiji-ya. 

So he did now, placing Sango's hand on her stomach, pushing himself wearily to his feet, brushing the beads over his right hand in a nervous gesture. 

"Miroku-sama, you needn't leave." 

The young girl placed the bucket on the floor. Her eyes avoided his, transfixed on the ripples across the water's surface. 

"After so many days, after seeing how well you've taken care of her – watching her, feeding her, talking to her, keeping her warm and comfortable – I see no right to force you away. I refuse to believe you'd take advantage of her." 

Miroku tried to lock eyes with Kagome, but her bangs obscured her face. He turned to Sango instead, clasping his hands together. 

"While I appreciate your trust, I'm afraid it isn't that simple. This is women's work, and I have no right to see and touch such things. Sango has done nothing to deserve such a violation." 

Kagome dipped fingers in the water, either to test the temperature or to resume the ripples that fascinated her so. 

"Women's work, yes, but what woman can continue doing this? Though there are many villagers, wives and maids alike, that are capable of caring for Sango-chan, could they show her the sort of care that you and I do? Don't you think they'd feel burdened after a few weeks? A few months? Years? How many people do you think I can trust enough to give Sango-chan to them, and know that she would not for a moment be in improper care?" 

"I wouldn't pretend to know, Kagome-sama." 

"I trust myself to take care of her. I trust Kaede-baachan. And I trust you." 

Miroku opened his mouth, ready to argue at some point, but acquiesced. 

"I am honored you hold me in such regard. But why not you, or Kaede-sama?" 

"Kaede-bachaan may give us her hospitality, but this would be too cruel. She has responsibilities to this village first." 

"I know." 

"And you ask why I can't do this? You know the answer, don't you?" 

"I fear it." 

"Surely your sense it as strongly as I do. Surely you know what it means, Miroku-sama." 

He nodded. 

"The flight of jaki to the north has stopped its advance, and it has become stronger. Naraku has made a new home, and it is nearly complete." He grimaced. "Once that is done, he will surely attack this place with great force." 

"Inuyasha and I will go. We will strike him, and I feel that we can trust Kouga-kun to help. You must stay here and protect Sango-chan." 

"I can't abandon you, Kagome-sama." 

"You'll have to abandon someone, Miroku-sama. And I'll save you the burden of making that choice: I demand you stay at Sango-chan's side." 

He smiled despite himself. Even then he knew that he was talking to a girl that would soon march to her death to save her friends. Perhaps she knew it too. 

"I cannot refuse an order from the lovely and beautiful Kagome-sama." 

**VII.**

Their traveling bags were prepared. Inuyasha rested against a tree as he waited for Kagome to say her good-byes. 

The young miko approached Miroku, who stood stalwart, though his heart was heavy. 

She hesitated, and then lightly pressed against him, reaching arms around his neck, kissing his cheek in a brief and chaste kiss. 

"I leave Sango-chan to you," she whispered through her tears. "Take care of my friend. Protect her, save her, keep her well. I have never asked so much from anyone before, but I beg you, Miroku-sama. I beg you to care for her as you always have. Love her as you always have. I don't care what happens to me so long as you promise me this." 

She released him, blushing, leaning away, but he caught her by the shoulders and forced her to look at him. 

"I promise, Kagome-sama. I promise upon your heart, upon your heart so kind that your name will be sung for ten times ten generations, that I will bring her to life." 

She nodded, turning to Kaede. As they spoke softly, Miroku walked to Inuyasha, kneeling beside the hanyou and speaking low so that Kagome could not hear him. 

"Any advice for me, Inuyasha?" 

Inuyasha snorted. 

"If Naraku comes here, leave this place with Sango as soon as you can. Go anywhere safe. That old bitch can take care of the village by herself, so don't worry about the villagers. Besides, Naraku won't try to do much damage if he knows you're gone." 

"Funny, I wasn't aware you would advocate running away." 

"Running away is for weaklings," Inuyasha said. "And Sango is weak. When you're fighting for someone else, their lives come before dignity, before honor, before everything. Don't forget that, bouzu." 

Miroku nodded. There was a brief moment of silence. 

"Inuyasha, I ask you one thing." 

"What's that?" 

"The night before you fight Naraku, when you make your last camp at the edge of his domain, make love to Kagome. Make her yours." 

Inuyasha narrowed his eyes. 

"Such perverted thoughts at such a serious time?" 

"This is very serious, Inuyasha." 

Inuyasha stared, eyes wide with incredulity. 

"You think we're going to die, don't you?" 

Miroku stood expressionless. 

Inuyasha growled. 

"Well, you're just fucking wrong. We're going to kill that bastard." 

He turned, stomping off. 

Kagome bowed to Kaede and followed. 

Miroku never saw them again. 

**VIII.**

"It's past sunset, Sango. Time for your bath." 

Miroku kneeled beside the woman, pulling aside the blankets, unfastening her yukata, and with firm but gentle hands behind her back and head, pulled her to a sitting position. 

He looked over her with eyes that did not see breasts and buttocks and soft flesh to caress, but skin and irritation and bedsores, atrophied limbs and poor circulation, a body that was not cold but held no warmth, no reaction to his touch. A living doll she was to him, beautiful and stunning and heart-rendingly painful to bear. 

Truly, Miroku, in all his wild years, had done no crime to deserve such terrible punishment. 

"It's getting cooler this time of year, so I warmed the water for you," he whispered, pressing a damp cloth to her back. 

He no longer hesitated when he undressed her. Before, at least for the first few months, he was afraid, impossible though it was, that she would lash out at him. This hesitation grew into a slow and deliberate reverence for Sango. Her body was a temple to him, and he would not defile it with an uncouth gaze or wayward caress. He would care for this temple, keeping it clean and healthy and alive, and ensure that it was at all times ready for Sango's return. 

"Because I saw you shiver before, when I gave you your bath. I hated to give you such discomfort, Sango, but I was glad to see you react to cold. It is a good sign you are getting better." 

He washed her, washed the sick and the filth from her porcelain skin, commenting quietly on every action, so that she would never go more than a moment without hearing a kind voice, and when he was done he dried her and dressed her in a clean yukata, picked her up and placed her gently on her side so that he could change the blankets on which she slept. 

"This futon is much softer than the one before, don't you think?" 

He left her on her side, arraying her arms and legs in a fetal position. He would roll her from one side to another several times over the night, as he did every night. 

He leaned over her, brushed the bangs from her forehead, and kissed her lightly near the scar that had healed and all but disappeared nearly two years ago. The mark of the foul strike that fell her and made her this way. 

"Good night, my love," he whispered in her ear. "Good night, and awake."   
  
**Author's Note:** This is perhaps the first story I've done in a long time where I'm actually nervous of what sort of reactions I'm getting. I suppose this is in the nature of a dark fic, as I wanted all along to take a rather common occurrence in the series and expand on it. It sort of rambles, and there's more than my fair share of out-of-character-ness, but I've kept this story to myself for a year now and I can't imagine improving it much further. In any case, I hope you think it was worth reading. 

Two more chapters left. 

-Scribe 


	3. Diminish

STRICKEN

by Scribe Figaro

Chapter Three: Diminish 

**IX.**

Miroku sat quietly on the steps of Mushin's temple, feeling the barrier around this place pulse slowly in tune to his weary heart. 

I'm not sure how much longer I can keep this up. 

Stretching his arms before him feebly, he studied the contours of the large circular grave just outside the edge of the barrier. 

I have greater respect for you, Father. I had hated you for leaving Mother as you did, but had I known how difficult it was to watch the woman you loved die, I would have not harbored such resentment for you. Ah, but I was young then. So very young. 

What folly it is that Naraku's curse does not claim us until long after we have loved, seen the object of that affection sicken and die, and suffered for enough years that death becomes not a enemy that pursues us, but a friend we wait upon. 

The Kazaana frightens me so little now. Certainly it would be terrible for me to leave my burden, my love, my Sango, in the hands of Hatchi, Shippou, and Koharu, but I cannot help my desire to do that very thing. 

It would have been easier if she had died. To spend so many months waiting for her to recover simply draws me closer and closer to her. With every day I spend with her, another chain fastens itself around my neck, drawing me downward to the grim mouths of madness. My life-force is so intermingled with her now, my every waking moment so consumed in taking care of her, every fiber of my soul tied tight to her, that if she died now I would die with her. 

What's worse, I long for that. I want her to die. I want her to die so that I won't be needed, so that I can take my own life and be free of this goddamned world where such terrible things happen to such wonderful women. 

Set me free, Sango. Choose this world or the other, but set me free. 

"Miroku-sama?" 

"I wish to be alone," he barked. 

A startled gasp followed. Miroku opened his eyes, seeing the dim silhouette of the girl before him. His senses were lamentably poor these days; she had managed to come across the porch, down the steps, and stand nearly before him all without his notice. 

Still she stood there, the girl that would follow him to the ends of the earth, and so far had done so, more or less. The girl with the hair tied back with a kerchief and bow, the turquoise yukata and cream-colored skirt that looked so much the second time she had seen him, the first girl to truly and honestly agree – nay, demand – to bear his children. 

Unfortunately for the young Koharu, at that time his heart was no longer his to give. 

Still, she was determined then, and she was determined now. She stood before him, perhaps scared a little of his temper. Fearful of him, like Sango never was. 

"What is it, Koharu? I thought I told you to watch Sango." 

"Shippou volunteered. He wanted me to talk to you." 

"About what?" 

Slowly, waiting for an objection, she crept toward him, kneeling beside him, leaning toward him a little but still nearly an arm's length away from contact. 

Miroku had a feeling this would not be a simple conversation. 

"Why must you bear this pain alone, Houshi-sama?" 

"It was my fault that she was hurt. I will make her well again." 

"It's too much, Miroku-sama. You can't keep yourself like this. You're so alone, it hurts me to even look at you." 

She turned to him, grasping his hand – the hand that held his other curse, the Kazaana – and pressed it firmly to her breast. 

"I'm not asking for marriage. You needn't speak to me again, if you wish it. I'm seventeen now, as old as Sango was when you first met her. You've seen so much pain and so little pleasure these past few years. Let me make you feel good, for one night. Or many nights. Every night. No one else will know. Even if they did, they would understand." 

He pulled his hand away. 

"No one will know because no one lives who would care," he growled. "Kirara wants for nothing but to see her mistress cared for. Shippou wishes only to train, to spend his hours in the dojo learning to fight, and would be disappointed in me, at worst. Hatchi would never question me." 

He sighed. 

"But Inuyasha would have never let me get away with such an infidelity. Nor would Kagome." 

"I think, Miroku-sama, after so many months, they would have understood." 

"I don't care." 

She leaned in close to him, pressing hands to his cheeks, a prelude to pulling him toward her for a kiss. 

"Miroku-sama," she whispered soothingly. 

"You are too good a woman to prostitute yourself to a man who cannot love you," he hissed. 

There was a fire in her voice he had never before witnessed. 

"You are too good a man to be nurse-maid to a woman who cannot love you." 

He pushed her away, his face twisted in anger, tainted with doubt. The woman who lay in that room did not touch his cheeks. She did not whisper his name. 

"She . . . she would love me, if she awoke." 

"But what if she doesn't, Miroku-sama? Surely you can't go on and assume the feelings you have for her are mutual? You love her so dearly, you have invested so many days caring for her every need, and when she awakes she will know none of it. To you, she is the woman you intend to marry, the woman who is closer to you than any wife of a normal man. But to her, Miroku-sama, you are still the sukebe houshi that she knew before she was struck down. You can't possibly expect her to love you as you love her." 

"Koharu . . ." 

She stood, leaning forward, kissing him lightly on the lips. 

"You may call me 'Sango' if you like." 

His breath caught, and with trembling hands he gripped her shoulders. 

She did not flinch as his hands trailed down her body, fingers tracing over the contours of her neck and chest and stomach, gripping her hips, pulling her closer, and resting firmly on her bottom. 

One gentle hand gripped the collar of his robe, the other was firm behind his head as she drew him into a kiss, frantic and forceful and hungry. 

Hands clutched at clothes – he could not tell whose hands or whose clothes. 

"Not here . . ." 

He could feel warm, supple flesh, 

". . . they won't know . . ." 

muscles that trembled beneath his touch, 

". . . on the steps . . ." 

a chest that rose and fell quickly in anticipation of his advances, 

" . . . let them watch . . ." 

legs that parted and wrapped tightly around him 

" . . . forgive me, Sango . . ." 

and mouth that nuzzled him and called out not "Houshi-sama," but _his name_, and called it again and again. 

" . . . Miroku-sama – Aah!" 

X. 

Miroku winced, leaning heavily on his staff. The beast had taken a good shot at his thigh, which was numb now and made his entire right leg quite useless. Both legs now were sticky with blood, his robes mostly shredded from the waist down. He brought a hand to his abdomen, but hesitated. He was unaware what damage had been done there, and wasn't quite prepared to find his guts hanging down to his knees. 

The rat-youkai that had done this retreated into the woods. 

Miroku had tried so hard to protect this place. The barrier constructed by Mushin upon his death as a final gift to Miroku kept the place secure. The weak rat-youkai horde could not penetrate the holy shell that stretched around the grounds of the temple, and for that Miroku was thankful to the old man. 

But unlike the other roving bands of creatures, these youkai were not easily dissuaded. They encircled the barrier day and night. 

They were wise. They knew the food and water stores in the temple could not last them much more than a few weeks. After ten days, it was clear they were determined to blockade Miroku, Sango, and the others until they starved. 

They must have had a very serious grudge against the taiji-ya. Perhaps she had decimated their clan at one time. There was no way to tell. 

And so Miroku entered the fray, quickly dispatching most of them with the Kazaana. When they began to encircle him, he sealed his hand and used his shakujou as best he could, dispatching youkai with a decisive but frugal use of o-fuda. 

It was the last rat-youkai that had struck him, coming quickly behind to others, striking him at the abdomen and leg in a quick slash of a claw and racing off before Miroku could counter. The rat-youkai escaped to the woods, waiting for Miroku to collapse from his injury. 

Miroku supposed it only needed a minute to wait. His head began to swim. 

"Miroku-sama!" 

Koharu's voice from the stairs, just inside the barrier. 

"Stay inside!" he replied venomously. 

"Miroku-sama, let it go! Come back inside, quickly, before it returns!" 

With horror he listened as her voice became closer. Koharu brought her shoulders beneath his arm, making him rest much of his weight on her tiny frame. 

"I won't be able to carry you if you collapse out here," she begged. "The temple is safe; heal there and you may fight again." 

He flicked his wrist, dropping the last of his o-fuda from his sleeve into his trembling fingers. 

"Quickly, on my mark," he whispered. 

Her hands squeezed his arm. 

"Now!" 

The two raced toward the barrier, but as he turned his head Miroku felt both legs become watery. 

Even with his dulled senses, he felt the rat-youkai come, but he could not move quickly enough. 

The blow he felt was not directed at him. The bones that were crushed were not his, nor were the torn flesh and the blood that doused his back and the side of his neck. 

Koharu went flying, her back split open from shoulder to hip from the creature's first blow. The second strike, in midair, tore into her side and spun her around. She landed hard on her back, the kerchief over her head flying loose and spilling dark hair over the grass, her arms flying outward with fists loosely closed and elbows slightly bent, as if she were in mid-run. 

The youkai landed heavily atop her legs. Instantly, one claw landed on her neck and raked downward, stripping her chest of both yukata and flesh. 

Miroku threw his o-fuda, watching it fly through the air at its target with mind-numbing slowness. With dreamlike detachment he witnessed Koharu's murder. 

It means to eat her child. Our child. To purify its body and pass through the barrier. 

The youkai's teeth descended. 

The o-fuda struck its back. 

The rat disappeared in blue flame. 

"Koharu . . ." 

Miroku crawled to her. She looked upward, eyes clear and yet distant. She did not move. 

"Miroku . . . sama . . ." she whispered. "I wish . . . I could touch your face." 

Her hand trembled. He took it in his own and pressed it to his cheek. 

"Hatchi will be here in a moment. You'll be alright, Koharu." 

"If you say so, Miroku-sama." 

He hesitated, the words catching in his throat, and though his words would be the ultimate lie, the ultimate betrayal to Sango, he could not look upon the dying girl and stay silent. 

"I love you, Koharu." 

The lie hung in the air like some rotten thing. 

She smiled. 

"Even though Miroku-sama does not mean it, he makes me very happy with those words." 

She spoke no more. When Hatchi came to them a minute later – apologizing furiously, crying, and begging forgiveness for hiding in the temple as the fight wore on, even though he did so at his master's request – Koharu was already dead. 

XI. 

On the third day of the eleventh month of the second year of Sango's illness, the taiji-ya squeezed Miroku's hand. 

Miroku, kneeling above her, was startled out of his chants. For a moment, he was afraid he had imagined the slightest of pressure in his palm. 

He stared at her for several minutes, barely breathing. 

Then. 

Suddenly. 

Her eyes opened. 

Beneath half-lids, her pupils darted back and forth, taking in the contents of the bedchamber she had never seen before. 

She squeezed his hand again, apparently realizing only then that she was not alone. Her eyes locked with his in a quizzical expression. 

"Sango," he breathed, the word heavy and pregnant, bringing tears along with it. As one who completes an excruciating contest and finds himself a winner, his strength evaporated. Restraint was gone. He could not muster the will to hide his face as he cried over her. 

He brought her hand to his face, kissed it furiously, pressing fingers against his lips, whispering thanks to the gods. 

Her mouth opened, but only a slight parting of the lips. She furrowed her brows in frustration. 

"You are in Mushin's temple," Miroku said. "You are safe here. Do you remember what happened?" 

Slowly, and with obvious deliberateness, Sango closed her eyes tightly and opened them again. 

"Can you speak, Sango?" 

With equal deliberateness, Sango blinked twice. 

"But you can understand me?" 

One blink. 

Miroku nodded. "That is enough for now, Sango. You have been ill for a long time, and it may be several days before you are able to speak or move much. Your mind is awake now, and I promise you that the rest of your body will awake with it soon enough. All I ask is that you be patient, that you not panic, and that you allow me to care for you until you can care for yourself. Would you allow me that much?" 

One blink. 

"Do you need anything now?" 

One blink. 

"Food? Drink? Does anything hurt?" 

No to all of these. But she squeezed his hand again. 

"You want me to stay here?" 

She gave him the closest she could give to an emphatic "yes." 

He smiled. 

"I would like that as well. Would you like me to tell you some stories while we wait for the morning?" 

Yes. 

Miroku bit his lip. So many terrible things had happened since she had been struck down. Surely he couldn't tell her of Kagome or Inuyasha. But he couldn't lie to her either. 

"I . . ." he paused. "I have never told you about my mother. I've never told anyone, because it's a sad story. But it's a love story as well, and I suppose most love stories end up sad in the end. Would you like to hear it anyway?" 

She squeezed his hand again, and the corners of her mouth tilted upward in the slightest indication of a smile. He nodded and immediately began to speak. 

"In his travels to defeat Naraku, my father came to a village in a deep green valley, where he paid close attention to a village girl that would respond to his advances with a deft and decisive slap across the face . . ." 

XII. 

Sango sat on the stone wall of the onsen, leaning back onto Miroku's chest. Her hands were in her lap. Her eyes studied the pile of smooth stones to her right. 

"These are healing stones. They will help your coordination." 

His right hand took hers by the wrist and placed it atop a stone. Her fingers slowly encircled it. 

"Feel the stone, the smoothness. Feel the power in them. These stones were forged from the depths of the earth, blessed by the gods and cast from Fuji-san." 

His hand encircled hers, making her hold the stone in one hand. Together they lifted it shoulder-high, brought it to their left side, and placed it on the ground. 

"After the stones were birthed from the womb of the mountain, they were kissed and caressed by the sea until they became smooth and round as you see them." 

Another stone was picked up and placed beside the first. 

"The stones are small, but if you put enough stones upon each other they become a mountain. You will build your strength up this way: in small tasks. You may grow frustrated, and you may hate me for the pain I will put you through to make you well again. But I will not abandon you, and though I know that my Sango would never give up on any journey, no matter how difficult, I want her to know that even if she tried, I would not allow it." 

He lifted his hand from hers. She gripped the stone in her hand and picked it up, but it slid from her fingers and clattered back to the pile. 

"Again, Sango." 

She got it further, this time dropping the stone in her lap. She brushed it away with a loose fist, allowing it to land on her left side. Miroku immediately picked it up and placed it back on the right. 

"Do it correctly, Sango." 

She tried again, getting closer this time. On a third attempt, she managed to place the stone squarely on the first one. Already her body shook with frustration, and though he could not see her face, Miroku knew it to be streaked with tears. His hand searched out hers again. 

"I will help you with the next few." 

His hand gripped hers. 

"This hand will cast Hiraikotsu again soon." 

XIII. 

Sango, wearing a loose, thin white yukata, was borne across the field between the temple and Mushin's pool. Miroku held her tightly, one arm beneath her knees and one supporting her back. 

"The waterfall is my personal space for meditation. No one but myself has stepped beneath the falls." His voice deepened. "It is a very private place to me. A powerful place. I have no doubt that it will lend you spiritual strength in ways I cannot." 

He brought her beneath the falls, sitting on the stone, sitting her on his lap and placing an arm around her back to steady her. She was strong enough now to move a little, and she shifted her weight slightly to find a comfortable position, leaning her side against his chest, resting her chin atop Miroku's right shoulder. The water streamed through her unbound hair and plastered her kimono to her body. Though the material Miroku could see the hue of her skin, the scar on her back. His fingers traced gentle circles along her spine, and for several minutes he spoke his chants over her. 

With alarm he watched her push away, but he realized it was only so that she could look him in the eyes. 

She took his left hand from her knee and – with fingers splayed – pressed it between her breasts. Her heart beat fast and hard. 

He searched her face, could tell by the way she furrowed her brows and looked downward that she was trying very hard to search for words, the first words she had spoken in two years. Finally, with a slight nod, she made her decision and locked eyes with him. 

"O . . . mae . . . no," she whispered. He could barely hear her over the din of the falls, but he could read her lips well enough. _Yours_. 

"Sango . . ." 

"Omae no Sango!" she growled, fiercely. Her hands released his, shot to his shoulders, and pulled herself into an embrace. 

"Houshi-sama!" 

He returned the embrace, holding her firmly but gently, relishing the sensation of a warm body against his. Her wet hair plastered against him, her breath was hot on his neck. 

He took her hand and pressed it to his own chest. 

"This heart is yours as well, Sango." 

**Author's Note:** I'd like to think the next chapter addresses a lot of the out-of-characterness, but the fact remains that this is more of a experiment borne of boredom than a finished piece like my other fanfics, so I'll agree this one is a bit rough in terms of description. I really thought I could make that particular conversation between Inuyasha and Miroku work, but it's still something awful. Too much emotion, not enough discipline on my part. Better luck next chapter, maybe? 

Anyway, thanks to everyone for the reviews. Reviews make me happy. :o)


	4. Realize

****

STRICKEN

by Scribe Figaro

****

Chapter Four: Realize

****

XIV.

Miroku handed her the clay teacup, which she held carefully in her hands. Her strength was much improved, and no longer did Miroku worry whether she would spill the tea and burn herself. She thanked him quietly as he sat across from her, holding his cup in one hand and idly studying it as he spoke. 

"Several months after you were struck down, Naraku's flight of jaki ceased somewhere on the island of Hokkaido. Kagome, Inuyasha, and I came to the conclusion that Naraku had fortified himself for battle and would come to us if we did not strike first. I was torn, unable to decide whether I should fight alongside them and risk leaving you alone and undefended, or staying by your side while allowing Inuyasha and Kagome to fight alone. I'm sorry to say, I did the latter. Through Hatchi, I have come to learn that Naraku murdered them both." 

Sango's heart sank at knowing Kagome and Inuyasha's fate, but the pain was tempered by the fact she had suspected this ever since she had awoken. She knew Kagome would never have left her alone for this long. Realizing Miroku had paused to allow this to sink in, she nodded for him to continue. 

"I realized then that Kaede's village was not safe, and rather than risk the lives of the villagers should Naraku come after us, I brought us here to Mushin's temple. Sadly, my master passed away only a year ago, but in dying he erected a powerful barrier around this place. Naraku has attempted several attacks, but mostly they have been merely a test of this barrier, or perhaps Naraku's curiosity at whether or not we are still alive. In any case, it seems he no longer considers us a threat to him. I begin to fear that he may be right." 

He shook his head. 

"Still, there is hope. Kohaku still lives, though he remains under Naraku's control, and now that you are well we might be able to fight again to save him. And Kouga fights on, battling Naraku's detatchments and defeating them time and time again. Even Sesshoumaru finds himself filled with resolve –a need to revenge both the child Rin who was stolen from him, and the brother who he reviled, and yet was still his brother. I feel certain it is only a matter of time before those two youkai team up and destroy him once and for all. At very least, Naraku has not gained much strength in the past year, no doubt due to the fact he must escape Kouga and Sesshoumaru each time they locate his castle and penetrate his defenses. Due to all this, Naraku is continually distracted, and unable to do much more to us than send a swarm of youkai now and again, just to remind us that he hates us." 

He sipped his tea. 

"It seems we are in an odd place," she said. "Temporarily safe from Naraku, and with several strong youkai on our side. Can you guess how long we can rely on them to keep Naraku at bay?" 

"Years, I should hope," Miroku said. "Naraku's greatest strength has always been his very nature. Being an aggregate of youkai, it is nearly impossible to locate a vital point. Until that time, however, it is not difficult for youkai as strong as Kouga and Sesshoumaru to keep him weak and running until they tire of doing so. And youkai like them never tire of revenge." 

"Then it needn't be just us," Sango said. "We could bring in villagers, strong men and women, and train them to be taiji-ya." 

"I think you overestimate the will and strength of those outside your village, Sango. The taiji-ya were not so feared simply because of their techniques. The bloodline you come from is well-renowned, and rather highly sought after. The only taiji-ya you could train would be the sons and daughters of whoever escaped your village." 

"I see," she said. 

Sango sipped her tea thoughtfully. ****

XV.

Fingers gripping his robes, she relaxed her arms and brought her legs into a kneel on the soft ground. He kneeled beside her, fingers gripping her obi. 

Her breath caught. 

He paused, and jerked his hands away. 

"Forgive me, Sango. I'm not used to asking permission for this." 

She blushed, and shook her head. 

"It's alright, Houshi-sama." 

The obi came loose, the yukata slid from her shoulders, and Miroku pulled the material free from beneath her knees. Naked she sat before him, one hand tight on his shoulder to keep her balance. 

"May I?" she asked. 

"Of course." 

Her fingers untied his kesa, slid into the seam of his long robe and pulled it free. She unfastened his white inner kimono as well, and pushed both garments from his shoulders. They pooled around him, leaving him clothed in only a fundoshi. 

Her breathing quickened. Though she was still weak, barely able to stand, she had persuaded Miroku to bring her here to bathe. 

"Houshi-sama," she said quietly. "You should know . . . my flow is regular again." She averted his eyes from him, clearly embarrassed, even though she knew he had seen that and worse while caring for her. "If I were to become pregnant, I could, and now is the best time in my cycle to try." 

"Sango," he said softly. "Sango, it's far too soon to consider that." 

"Why?" 

"When you gain back your strength . . ." 

"I'm strong enough to lay with you, Houshi-sama. I'll be plenty strong enough to bear a child when that time comes. The women of my village were very resilient, and death by childbirth was always very rare. I have no doubt I can deliver as many children as you can make me." 

"There is no one here who can properly deliver or care for them. No village women. No nurse-maids. No one but a tanuki and a kitsune, and a houshi who might not live that long." 

"I can teach them how to help the delivery, and I can care for as many babies as I can fit in my arms." She cupped a breast in her hand. "These aren't just for you to grab, you know. I can feed a half-dozen at a time, if needed." 

"Sango . . ." 

"Why hesitate?" she asked, urgently. "You've groped me incessantly since I met you. You've tried to get me to bathe with you. And now, I'm asking you – I'm telling you – to lay with me, here. What's wrong?" 

"You are a taiji-ya," he said sternly. "A fighter. You are not a breeder. You are not a patch of dirt for me to bury my seed in. You are not a garden in which to grow an army to fight Naraku." 

"And I am not a person to be told what to do," she hissed. "We're hopeless here, Houshi-sama. Don't think I haven't noticed the way you, Hatchi, and Shippou carry on. You've already given up." She shook her head. "Years ago, I hoped that we could give up, that we could just forget Naraku and settle down. I am a fighter, but am I not also a woman, Houshi-sama? Are you blind to that? Don't you think I have instincts? A need to nest? A need to bear children, feed them, and hold them? A need to love?" 

She pounded the ground with her fists. 

"For god's sake, Houshi-sama, I don't want you to die and leave me alone!" 

He lowered his head. 

"I'm sorry, but that will have to be." 

She began to cry at that. 

"I disgust you, don't I? You've bathed me, changed me, wiped my ass and worse, and now I absolutely disgust you. That's it, isn't it? I'm like an infant to you now, aren't I? Something that could never arouse you. Something that you could never desire." 

She turned away. 

"Not like you desired Koharu." 

She meant that one to sting. Perhaps Shippou had mentioned it to her. Miroku brought a hand to his face. 

"You could never disgust me, Sango. I love you, as a husband loves a wife, and there is nothing I desire more than to give you my children." 

"Then why?" 

"That same night Koharu was killed, I was injured." 

"What – what do you mean? Houshi-sama?" 

He took her hand and pressed it softly against the folds of his loincloth, allowing her fingers to trace over the flaxen material and feel the flesh beneath, the flesh that did not respond to her touch. 

She drew in a sharp breath. Her face turned white. 

"Castrated," he said flatly. "An amazing joke played upon me, and sadly, one I have not yet found a means to laugh at yet." 

She pulled her hand away, making a fist, fingernails biting into her palms. 

"H-houshi-sama . . ." 

"The young lord, Kuranosuke Takeda," he said. "He is a most kind ruler, and of high class. If you wanted –" 

She deftly struck him across the face. 

"Never," she hissed. "No one else. Only you." 

She pulled herself into his arms and cried. ****

XVI.

It had to happen this way. 

Naraku was quick, so amazingly quick, that neither of them had more than a few moments notice before the demon was upon them. He was strong, so much stronger than before, so much stronger than they could have imagined. 

It took no more than a wave of his awful hand for the barrier around the monastery to shatter. 

The two of them raced outside, and there they were struck by the heart-stopping evil aura of a demon, a full demon. 

He stood smugly in the field, with waving tentacles like spider's legs sprouting from his back and clawing at the dirt about them. His eyes were wide and red, his teeth sharp. Violet waves of poisonous shouki began to spill from the forest behind him, shouki from which ten thousand demons began to spawn, surrounding the two of them and cutting off any means of escape. 

Inside one hand he held the sacred jewel, tainted a sickening black. 

Sango nearly dropped Hiraikotsu in shock. 

"The . . . the Shikon no Tama!" 

"Is mine," Naraku bellowed. The demon outstretched his left hand, a vague gesture to the minions behind him. 

"You have been most enjoyable prey, Taiji-ya and Houshi, and as such it saddens me that you are only the third and fourth creatures to feel the glory of my fully demon form." 

With a flick of his index finger, a series of grunts came from the hellspawn around them. Two objects the size of melons flew, landing mere meters from Sango and Miroku. 

Even with most of the hair torn out, noses smashed, jawbones shattered, both could easily recognize the recently-decapitated heads of Sesshoumaru and Kouga. 

Both Taiji-ya and Houshi turned white. 

"I had expected to absorb them, you see, but as it turns out, they are simply too weak. In my present form, they would simply dilute my power. A pity they could not gain the honor of being part of this Naraku." 

He shook his head. 

"Still," Naraku mused, "they had a better ending than your friends." He smiled, one eyebrow raised, a damning smile. "Now, whatever happened to Inuyasha and his friend Kagome? Aren't you the least bit curious?" 

At the mention of Kagome's name, Sango stumbled on her feet. Miroku growled under his breath, willing himself to not be distracted, to not allow himself to be rattled, but already he knew the battle was lost. 

Naraku noted her reaction and chuckled under his breath. 

"You see, both of them fell easily into one of my traps, as they always do. The miko was separated from her hanyou protector, and fell into a bit of ill fortune – raped by a youkai, in fact. Impregnated." 

"You lie," Sango hissed. 

"You disbelieve me, Taiji-ya? I'm quite surprised – when those thousand snake demons burst from her womb, I would have thought her screams would travel as far as China." 

Screaming, tears streaming, all reason gone, Sango raced at Naraku, her Hiraikotsu thrown mid-stride, her short sword drawn. The huge boomerang struck Naraku broadside and splintered into a thousand pieces. Naraku did not so much as flinch. 

Her sword came down, striking Naraku at the center of his forehead. The blade shattered, and as her arms went downward with the swing, Naraku's hand shot forward, tearing a ragged hole in her chest, burying his hand and wrist inside her. 

Blood sprayed around his forearm. Her eyes went wide, her face white. 

"Hm," Naraku remarked. "Though women are so very boring, there is something exciting about the look on their faces when you squeeze their hearts." 

Withdrawing his hand, allowing the girl to fall lifeless to his feet, Naraku turned. 

Miroku sat there, on his knees, his lips mumbling prayers. His eyes remained transfixed upon the dead girl, his shakujou and a wad of sealing scrolls forgotten at his side. 

"If I had pity," Naraku murmured, "I should kill you now." 

Naraku turned, bringing the demon horde with him. 

After what might have been hours, Miroku crawled to Sango, hands shaking. He kissed the cold lips, caressed the matted hair, the blood-encrusted cheek. He sat beside her and pulled her into his lap, cradling her like a child, and when she became stiff in his arms he tore loose the rosary on his right hand and buried them both in the endless void of Naraku's curse. ****

XVII.

Arms flailing, Miroku pushed himself through the inky black darkness that enveloped him. With a cry he pierced the barrier, and there was starlight and cold sweat. 

Gasping, he turned to survey his surroundings. 

There was Inuyasha curled up in a tree, one foot swaying lazily in the breeze. His ears twitched, and Miroku knew he had heard him awake, though such an event might not be enough to rouse him from his sleep. 

Kagome was nearby, rolled tightly in her sleeping bag. Shippou shared this arrangement and smiled peacefully in his sleep. Beside them lay Sango. She too slept peacefully, though her eyes were clenched shut. __

Dare I? 

He had to. He had to know. 

Softly, he kneeled before her, and with nimble fingers pushed aside her bangs. There he saw Kagome's bandage, the tiny piece of cloth that stuck to wounds and was inexplicably decorated with colorful characters of animals. There was no bruise, only the slightest cut covered entirely by a bandage no larger than his thumb. 

He remembered. 

He remembered the fight, the numbing, paralyzing fear as he saw the sharp fragment of the broken naginata slashing down to Sango's face. He remembered how powerless he was, and how she leaned backwards to escape the blow, receiving only the slightest gash from a wayward splinter. He remembered how distraught he had been for the remainder of the evening as his mind worked furiously and without intention in cataloguing every possible harm that could have been done to the taiji-ya. 

It was unlike him to be so rattled, but rattled he was, and even seeing the proof that he had imagined her coma, and the deaths of all of them, his mind was not at peace. 

Quietly but deliberately he left the camp, the rings of his shakujou held tightly in one hand to keep from rousing his friends. He made his way for the hill just east of them, where he and Sango had sipped tea and watched the sunset only hours ago. 

A pair of amber eyes, eyes beneath soft coral eyeshadow and brows furrowed with concern, watched him go. ****

XVIII.

The sky was especially clear this evening, and it was on the nearest hillside she found him, sitting crosslegged, arms at his sides, in a rather uncharacteristically lax position. His face was pained, his eyes wide, looking at the night sky, though she could tell his mind was not on the stars. 

He said nothing as she approached. 

She sat beside him, her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms around them, her eyes straight ahead to the starry sky, as if she was only here for the view, and that it was only coincidence that they should awake so late at night and choose the same spot for stargazing. 

She smelled something upon him, not sweat but something different, a bitter, acrid scent. A scent she recalled from animals she once hunted as a child. A smell that heightened her predatory nature when she found it on enemies. A smell she had never before detected on Houshi-sama. 

Fear. He reeked of it. 

Some time passed, and she waited patiently. If all he wanted was for her to sit here, silently, she would do so. If he asked her to leave, she would do so. But she knew his inner demons, knew how strong his fears could grip him, and would not want him to bear them alone. 

When he finally spoke, she listened. 

"I lost you." 

His voice wavered. 

"Everyone died, Naraku defeated us, and I lost you." 

He turned to her. 

"And even though I knew it was all a nightmare, and holds no substance, I can't stop myself from dwelling upon it." 

He shook his head. 

"I apologize, Sango, for waking you. You needn't stay here. I deserve no comfort from a bad dream, when we all have enough hardships in the waking world." 

"If it upsets you, that is reason enough for me to comfort you," she said softly. "When my thoughts turn to Kohaku, and I dwell on him, it is no more useful than you dwelling on a dream. And yet, always I can count on you sitting beside me, to coax me from my sadness." 

She smiled. 

"I think my Houshi-sama keeps to himself too much, and tries to bear his pain along with mine, when he should instead share that burden between the both of us." 

She moved toward him, pressing her face against his shoulder. 

"Sango," he said softly. "I want you to know this, now, in case something happens to you, or to me." 

He gripped her hand with his own. His jaw quivered, finding it so hard to expose himself, to speak the words that have never been said, and perhaps never needed to be said. But what if she didn't know? He couldn't risk it, and even though it was foolish to speak of such things, still the words came. 

"Sango, you are everything to me. Absolutely everything." 

For a moment, there was nothing, no sound but the rhythm of her breath. 

"Baka," she whispered. "You think the way you act hides something like that?" 

She snuggled closer to him. 

"You think I would agree to your proposal if I did not know that Houshi-sama loves me as I love him?" 

She shook her head. 

"Baka," she said again, burying her face in the shoulder of his robe, hiding her silent tears in the dark material. 

He pulled her towards him, kissing her lightly on the forehead, leaning backward so that he was lying on his back and she beside him. 

She moved against him, finding a comfortable spot, using his chest as a pillow, and soon she was silent. 

He would make sure to awake before sunup, so that they could return to camp before the others awoke and thought the worst, but until then he lay with her, and the stars were indescribably beautiful. __

Whatever dreams may come, let them come. Whatever hardships and terrors might come at me, I shall bear them. This girl is my strength. My hope. My future. 

My fiancée. 

"Houshi-sama . . ." 

He started. The tone of his voice was dangerous. She only spoke that way when . . . 

He looked down. Yes, indeed, his left hand had somehow wandered from her shoulders down to her bottom, and there it lay, fingers splayed around the gentle curve. 

She didn't move, and her voice was muffled as she spoke mostly into his kesa. 

"When I wake up, that hand better be someplace else." 

So saying, she buried her hands in his robe and slept. 

Miroku, cautiously letting out a breath, realizing his anticipation of a strike across the face was not to be met, smiled slyly. 

Not being one to pass up an opportunity, he squeezed her bottom lightly. __

Mine. 

Written from February 2003 to May 2004


End file.
